


Honesty

by hsidus



Category: American Assassin (2017)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 00:26:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hsidus/pseuds/hsidus
Summary: She and Rapp stop seeing each other as obstacles just long enough to fuck.





	Honesty

**Author's Note:**

> I have not read any of the books by Vince Flynn; I saw the movie, I like Dylan, and that's the extent of my understanding of the character. This is the first thing I've ever published on here and I expect it'll get a grand total of about three hits. If by any chance you read it and like it, don't be shy. :)
> 
> EDIT: This has gotten about 10 times as many hits and three more kudos than I expected, so thanks! You guys rock.

She’s watched an endless parade of men like him go by in the past few years. Young, muscular, set jaws, hard eyes, the kind of swing in their walk and weight on their shoulders that make girls stupid enough to fall in love even if they know better. Red-blooded American boys, patriots, psychos, beasts.

And yet.

His dark eyes are fringed with long, thick lashes, softening him immediately. His face is too fine, too expressive; it shows rage and pain and hate too clearly. His movements — while they are brutal and they are effective — have an edge of wildness instead of the clipped, right-angle efficiency she’s used to. Maybe he’s special, maybe not, but he is different.

All those boys — _no, men_ — meant something to somebody, she supposes. All those corn-fed American psychos must’ve had mothers, mothers who mourned them after she killed them. She never saw them as people, not even prey, just obstacles, but she when she looks at this one, she can see the details of personhood.

He catches her staring and wariness flashes through eyes pitted by exhaustion and bruising. “What?” he says, and it occurs to her that maybe he doesn’t see her as a person. Maybe he prefers girls-next-door with freckles and thick, messy braids, girls who cry, and maybe to him she’s just a Russian killer doll engineered to be attractive.

“Nothing,” she says. He turns away, disappears into the tiny motel bathroom, limping just a little. She knows it’s from when their car was T-boned earlier; the door had crumpled straight into his hip. She could map every new mark on his body to a specific moment in the past 24 hours, but there are plenty of old marks, too.

She hears a thud, a muffled grunt from the bathroom, and then she’s moving on autopilot. She shoulders open the door; Rapp is half-naked, choking, vainly slamming the heel of his hand into the cinderblock chin of a man who is much too big for the bathroom. She drives her knife between the ribs, hears the breath forced out, drags the knife to shred the lung. Blood spurts; the man collapses into the tub almost silently, nearly pulling Rapp with him. The bathroom is quiet except for Rapp’s labored breathing.

She doesn’t feel like dealing with this. The motel room is far too small to leave a body in it overnight and not smell it; if they want to sleep, they’ll have to get rid of it now. He’s tired too, slumped against the wall, arms slack, catching his breath. She wipes the knife on the body’s pants and pulls down the shower curtain. “Come on,” she says. “There’s woods outside. We just have to get it out there.”

“Someone will find it,” he says, his voice raw.

“Doesn’t matter. Nobody’s going to go out of their way for a Russian mobster, not in the States. Won’t matter if they do. Neither of us exist.”

He grunts assent. They wrap the body in the curtain, hoist it through the window, carry it into the woods. There’s a half a truck out here, abandoned, rusted out, branches growing through the windows, and they roll the body underneath. The undergrowth is thick, the trees stubby and dense; the place is not scenic. Maybe nobody will find it.

His limp is pronounced on the way back, and the grass behind the motel is slippery with dew. She catches him when he goes down, and for an instant he’s warm and solid in her arms, smelling of sweat and blood.

“Got it?” she says neutrally. He recovers, but weariness is showing in his face and he stays silent.

After they’ve crawled back through the window, he goes back into the bathroom but leaves the door open. She cleans up the blood they spilled on the way to the window — surprisingly little — while he showers, but she finishes before he does. She lays down on one of the small beds, scratchy comforter prickling against her skin.

Apparently she falls asleep, because when she opens her eyes he’s leaning over her, towel wrapped around his waist, water dripping off his hair. The surprise — _that’s one word for it_ — must show in her face, because he freezes, blinks, licks his lips. This surprises her doubly, because Rapp is a top predator and these are the signals of a nervous dog. Besides, most men in this line of work don’t wait for permission.

She pulls him down beside her, stands up long enough to kick off her pants, and swings on top of him; he has no business doing the heavy lifting, not with that hip. She almost doesn’t take her shirt off, because her bra is black and utilitarian and nothing special, because she’s tired, but he’s looking up at her with heat behind his eyes, like he needs a little more than to just get off. She reconsiders, tugs the fabric leisurely over her head, unclasps the bra and shrugs out of it. His hands follow, tracing newly-bared skin, and she can feel the callous on his trigger finger. He hesitates, fingertips dancing over her upper ribs, and she presses her hand over his, bringing palm firmly to flesh, bringing it up over her breasts to her neck. It’s been a long time since she was touched like this, since a hand on her body was searching for anything but a handhold.

He’s hard beneath the towel, and she peels it away, takes him in hand and strokes him. He sucks in a breath, and the fingers on her neck splay open until the pad of his thumb brushes her lower lip. She flicks her tongue out, tastes salt, and then draws his thumb into her mouth. His pupils blow wide and hungry, and she pauses. This is unexpected, this artless, genuine want.

She sinks down on his cock in one smooth motion. He moans softly, a controlled sound, but his chest heaves and she can feel every abdominal muscle beneath her ripple with tension. She takes his hands, pins them above his head, and starts to move.

He looks good like this, she thinks. His mouth is open slightly, panting with each thrust. His chest is flushed and glistening. The muscles of his forearms and biceps are defined, tendons standing out as he grips her hands. Despite his injury, his hips are rolling beneath her, meeting hers every time, and her nerves are lighting up like neon.

“You feel good,” she breathes. His eyes snap to hers like magnets, dark and glittering, and she has seen that look before. The tension in the room thrums suddenly, and he pushes up against her hands, testing. In response, she slows her pace, lifting almost completely off him and taking him in again with a deep, patient grind. His eyes roll back in his head and his brows knit, an expression of such unguarded pleasure that it takes her breath away just to see it. His honesty has her off-balance, because that’s what this is, honesty. She almost didn’t recognize it and she’s not sure what to do with it, what to do with him. This feels dangerous.

She leans down to get her mouth on him, parting his lips with her tongue. He opens for her without hesitation, and he tastes the way he smells: cinnamon and something darker, bitter, like coffee. She releases his hands to tangle her fingers in his hair, never stopping the movement of her body, and the next time she takes him in he moans wantonly into her mouth. Now that his hands are free they find purchase on her hips, and with the next thrust he slams her down on his cock.

“ _Yes_ ,” she hears herself say. She can barely catch her breath now, and when she pulls back to look at him he’s wrecked, eyes dark and wild, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. He’s close, and so is she, and for this moment it doesn’t matter that he might be the one to kill her someday, or that she might kill him. For this moment, they are guileless and transparent as glass, and their bodies are not made up of weak points and major blood vessels and breakable bones but stardust.

A frisson of ecstasy is twisting through her, but she’s unwilling to let go just yet, unwilling to let this rare moment end. Maybe he feels it too, because his movements are going rough and uneven but his eyes are locked on hers. He slides his hand between their bodies to touch her, a last-ditch effort to get her over the edge before him, but it’s the way he says her name that makes her come.

She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back, hearing him pant and groan through his own orgasm. She rides it out as long as possible, because as soon as it’s over, she’ll be sleeping with one eye open and trying to never turn her back to him.

When it’s over, she’s not quite ready. She swings off of him and heads straight to the bathroom to clean up, and when she reemerges, he looks like he’s sleeping. He's not, but they're back to pretending now, so she slides quietly into the other bed. It's easier to lie, she realizes; she's exhausted, and it's not from the sex itself but the effort of cracking her shell open long enough to feel it.

She props herself up on her elbow and reaches for the lamp between the beds, catching a glimpse of him looking at her as she does. She pauses briefly to meet his eyes, and then she turns out the light.


End file.
